'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  Missus Smith had given him the sob story of her husband’s mining accident the first time she’d come in last November, and Sean hadn’t believed her, though he’d enjoyed subsequent embellishments to the tale and had never corrected her on the details, such as the fact that last visit—shortly before Christmas—she’d only had four children.

  “How much do you want to borrow against these, Missus Smith?” he inquired politely.

  In an appeal for sympathy, the woman widened her eyes and batted her lashes, succeeding only in achieving a look of vague lunacy. “As much as I possibly can, Mister Sung. We are down to our last silver dollar.”

  Sean noted quietly that she was always down to her last silver dollar; everyone was always down to their last dollar, their last half-dollar, their final two bits, when they came to see Mister Sung, the exotic European pawnbroker. Sean laughed whenever he thought of this, his new identity—he’d encouraged, and even added to, the rumors that established him as the debauched son of an aristocratic family, exiled to America so as not to shame them with his gambling, dueling, whoring, and other unmentionable vices. The fact that he’d made a small fortune in cards, scooped up tracts of land around the city, and now ran the lucrative House of Good Fortune in Chinatown with the enigmatic Chang-Li did not surprise anyone who already believed the stories about him; in fact, it only substantiated those stories and fueled the mystery surrounding his purported identity—and that was exactly the way Sean wanted it. Chang-Li’s sudden voyage to China and the subsequent transference of Mei Ling to Mister Sung also fueled the proverbial fire. In the first days of their work together in the pawnshop, Sean had insisted to neighboring businessmen and those who cared enough to inquire that Mei Ling was a free agent, that she worked for him now as a paid employee. He soon realized that absolutely no one believed this to be true, and the fact that she remained in Chang-Li’s house with him did nothing to change their minds.

  Having idled Missus Smith long enough to lower her financial expectations, Sean now set the earrings down and gave her his full attention.

  “Five dollars,” he proposed.

  Missus Smith gasped and put her hand to her heart. “Surely, sir, they’re worth at least ten!”

  They’re worth at least fifty, you old fool, Sean laughed inwardly, and when your mistress catches on to the fact that you’re selling her jewelry, you’ll be jailed if not hung.

  “They are very pretty, Missus Smith, but the stones are flawed and the setting is old.” Sean let this sink in. “Out of the goodness of my heart and in consideration of your poor children—four, you said?”

  The woman’s eyes darted wildly, trying to remember. “Five,” she decided. “I mean six. Yes.” She sniffed. “Six small children. Just babies. You were saying?”

  “I’ll split the difference with you.” He reached under the counter and into a cash box, and then set the coins out one by one. “Seven dollars fifty,” he pronounced, then whisked the earrings out of sight. “You drive a hard bargain, Missus Smith.”

  She frowned but picked up the coins and put them in her bag, knowing better than to argue further with the savvy pawnbroker.

  “Thank you, Mister Sung.” She flashed him a quick, hard smile. “You have saved my family from ruin once again.”

  “And remember, Missus Smith, I will hold your treasures for two months so that you might reclaim them before they are offered for resale to the general public,” he reminded her, though both knew she would never be back for things that weren’t hers in the first place.

  “Thank you so much,” she said again. “Good day, Mister Sung.”

  “Good day to you, Missus Smith, and give my best to Mister Smith and the innumerable little Smiths.”

  Now she scowled outright, which he enjoyed, then gathered up her bag and hurried from the shop, the bell tinkling as the door closed behind her. Chang-Li had been right in this as in all things—there was good money to be made in the buying and selling of stolen property. Everyone was stealing something from someone in San Francisco; all that was needed was a clearinghouse. Certainly, there were other pawnbrokers in the city, and most likely Missus Smith had used each of them at one time or another as she sold off her employer’s belongings—a few here, a few there, so as not to draw too much attention to herself—but these shops were reputable establishments for the most part and their merchandise openly displayed. The House of Good Fortune, on the other hand, was a quieter shop located in one of the little side streets in the heart of Chinatown; to know about it, one would have to have fingers that had already attained a certain degree of stickiness. This was a strictly word-of-mouth establishment, though Sean was happy to pretend that those who came in to sell their merchandise had indeed fallen on temporarily desperate times and only needed a bit of ready cash to see them through. It was a steady stream of domestics and clerks, he’d found, from butlers and parlor maids to shop walkers and junior assistants, hotel boys and laundrymen to carriage drivers and carpenters, not to mention the occasional lady of the evening, most of whom he knew by name; pickpockets and thieves were everywhere, and everyone was getting ahead any way possible. With the amount of wealth floating around this town, no one seemed to think that a few bits and pieces would ever be missed, that they’d ever be caught, and, to tell the truth, few ever were.

  There were, however, just enough honorable servants and employees to remind Sean that a moral standard still existed. Mei Ling was one such person—she’d never stolen from Chang-Li and she didn’t steal from Sean, not so much as a bowl of rice, though he wouldn’t have cared if she did. Sean paid her a wage and made sure she understood that she could come and go as she pleased, but Mei Ling continued to behave as if her life consisted of only one thing—caring for Mister Sung. She worked every day in the shop, learning the business, cleaning and polishing the daily acquisitions, and then she went home and cleaned the house, mended Sean’s clothes, cooked his meals, even trimmed his beard and braided his queue. She acted as wife in every respect but one, and though she had made clear her availability, Sean had not brought her into his bed; he went to Ah Toy’s for that, though in all honesty, it was her face he sought among the various girls he sampled.

  As Mei Ling’s competence in the shop grew, Sean spent more time in the back room with his pipe, defeating the purpose of going out at night. He was smoking too much—he knew that; more and more, he wanted simply to lie upon his bed with a woman in his arms, a woman for whom he had not paid, a woman who might possess the ability to free him from himself. Although he wanted that woman to be Mei Ling, he knew she offered herself to him only out of a sense of duty, a sense of destiny, not out of unique longing or a shared desire, and although he tried to convince himself that one more debauchery would make no difference to his already blackened soul, he knew that the risk of engaging Mei Ling’s heart, of tying her to such a low man as he’d become, was a greater sin than all the others put together. Because he was, in a way, refusing her, he tried to give her other things instead, to show her that she pleased him, that she was worthy of so much more than he could ever offer.

  Sean took out again the earrings Missus Smith had just brought in; they really were lovely, so quiet and delicate, beautiful in their simplicity. He looked under the counter for a small, velvet-lined box, then put the earrings gently inside. There would be an occasion sometime, or perhaps giving these to Mei Ling would create the occasion; either way he would keep the box with him until such a time arose.

  “Thank you, Missus Smith.” His voice hung in the empty room. “Whoever you may be, thank you very much indeed.”

  Hopkins kept her hood up as she hurried out of Chinatown, despising the look of the place with its square silk flags and doorway offerings to heathen gods, the harsh sizzle and steamy odor of dumplings fried in sesame oil, the inhabitants who all looked alike and smelled like the fish oil they rubbed in their hair, the jarring tongue that set her teeth on edge with its sliding tones and dissonance. She hated, too, the industry of the
place—the laundresses with their basket poles, the shopkeepers who endlessly swept their doorways, the crowded noodle stands and boisterous restaurants—and the fact that, though they bowed respectfully, these people seemed always to be laughing up their sleeves at her. Had Hopkins not exhausted the potential of every other pawnshop in the city, she would not have come at all, though she had to admit that the House of Good Fortune, though it paid out less, was far more discreet in its inquiry and speculation. The police kept a close eye on Sydney Town and Chinatown both, but it appeared that Chinatown paid heavier and more regular bribes—Hopkins had seen lawmen stroll the streets, but they turned a blind eye to customers going in and out of the House of Good Fortune.

  Hopkins remained shielded by her hood even after she left Chinatown, heading toward the waterfront. There was always the possibility of recognition, especially as afternoon approached, with more people on the streets, but she kept her head down and her pace up, and if stopped, she would have made the excuse of marketing or errands for her mistress. If hailed in the plaza—especially by Mister Pennywhistle, owner of Pennywhistle Pipe and Tobacco, and a very good prospect for Enid—Hopkins would answer to her real name. But down here along the wharves she was Missus Smith—if she was anyone at all—wife of poor old Mister Smith, who was housebound in caring for their unfortunate son and, by all accounts, devoted to the boy.

  Taking care to scurry unnoticed past the small window that fronted the Mulhoney rooms, Missus Smith climbed the dark stair to the landing, walked to the back, and opened the door with her key. It was cold inside, she felt it at once, but any feelings of guilt she might have had were instantly repressed, to be substituted instead by irritation—a much more energizing emotion.

  “Harry.” Hopkins spoke sharply. “Why is there no fire in the grate?”

  A man older than herself, dressed in grimy layers of clothing, rose wearily to his feet. “Hello, Agnes. Sorry. Out of coal since Monday. But we knew you’d come.” He turned to adjust the blanket on the body that lay awkwardly curled on its cot. “Didn’t we, Wills? We knew Mother’d come as soon as she could.”

  A moan of greeting came from the lump as it turned itself over, arms and legs spasming, its smile a puddle of drool.

  “He’s disgusting—can’t you keep his face dry? You’ve only all day to do it, while I work my fingers to the bone.”

  “Yes, dear,” Harry apologized. “I know you do, and we’re grateful to you for it. Aren’t we, Wills? Aren’t we grateful to Mother for bringing us food and coal?”

  Wills waggled his head and groaned.

  “I don’t know why you do that.” Agnes turned away in disgust. “He can’t understand a word you say, you know. Poor, dumb idiot creature.”

  Harry shook his head. “Don’t call him that, Agnes. I’ve said it before. I won’t hear it. Sickness overtook his body, but I know he’s still sharp as a tack in his mind. I know he can understand us, Agnes, and I won’t have you saying otherwise. I’m still head of this family.”

  “Is that right?” she replied, scathingly.

  Harry pulled himself up as tall as he could and straightened his vest. “Just say the word, and I’ll go out to work. Long as you’re willing to stay with him. You can’t leave him alone now. He seizes worse than ever. But you just say the word, and I’ll go out.”

  Agnes snorted and started pulling food out of the basket. “You’re an old man, Harry Hopkins. Lord knows, you were old when I married you, but at least you could work. There’s no jobs to be had for the likes of you. Strong backs only, or strong minds—you don’t have either one anymore. Only good for wiping up after idiots, and that’s not exactly a booming business, you know.”

  Wills moaned from the cot and tried to sit up. His father hurried to his side and helped him, pulling the shabby blanket up around the boy’s thin shoulders.

  “You’re troubling him.” Harry smoothed back his son’s hair. “Why do you come if you’re going to talk like that?”

  Agnes slammed a loaf down on the table. “Well, forgive me for providing your daily bread, Harry. I guess I’ll just get on back to scrubbing the floors and cleaning the chamber pots if I can’t say what I like to my own husband in the rooms I pay for.” She picked up her empty basket.

  “I’m sorry, Agnes.” Harry immediately humbled himself in the face of her anger. “Please don’t go. We’re getting off wrong here. We appreciate everything you do—really we do. We’d be lost without you and we know how hard you work for us, don’t we, Wills?”

  The boy’s head was tipped to one side, but he looked from his father to his mother with sharp, clear eyes.

  Agnes sighed, a spot of red on each side of her stiff, pasty face.

  “Sit down, dear,” Harry said soothingly, pulling out one of the two chairs at the table. “I’ll get a little heat going and make you a nice cup of tea. Would you like that? A nice cup of tea?”

  There was silence as Agnes let her eyes run over the cheerless room with its drab walls and smeary windows overlooking the street and a forest of masts beyond in the harbor. With another great sigh, she unbuttoned her cloak, then sat down, watching Harry lay out the coal and light it. She turned her eyes toward Wills, realized he was staring at her, and frowned at him. She studied the backs of her hands until at last the water had boiled and the tea had steeped.

  “Here you go, now, dear.” Harry set a chipped mug in front of her. “A nice cuppa. How’s Enid? We saw her at”—he glanced at his wife, then away—“before Christmastime, but not since. She’s well, then, is she? Getting on up there?”

  Agnes wrapped her cold hands around the mug. “Our daughter’s not got much more going on upstairs than our son,” she said shortly. “But I’m teaching her everything she’ll need to know to run her own house. I’ve got a few prospects lined up. One seems particularly eager.”

  “Is she being courted, then?” Harry leaned on the table, a smile on his face. “Is he a nice young man?”

  Agnes frowned. “Of course she’s not being courted, you fool. You can’t present a young girl to the men in this society—they’ll make all kinds of promises just to get a woman in their house. And Enid is such a simpleton, she’d go with the first one who asked her, and be no better off than …” She stopped herself, though it took a determined pressing together of the lips. “It takes arranging,” she amended and sipped her tea. “I’m working on it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a suitable young man for her. One as she likes and as likes her in return.” Harry patted her hand. “Are they churchgoing men, the suitors, good jobs and all?”

  Agnes looked at him as if he were daft. “Of course they’re religious. Of course they have good jobs. One of them is rich. Do you think I’m stupid? The last thing I need is a poor son-in-law to support on top of everything else.”

  Harry winced at the sharpness of her tone, but he pressed on for love of his daughter. “But he’ll be a nice man, Agnes. Enid deserves as much.”

  “Nice men don’t marry girls with brothers like that.” Agnes jerked her thumb at Wills. “He’ll be whatever he is and it doesn’t matter, as long as he has enough money to take care of all of us.” She stared into her teacup.

  “We’re doing all right,” Harry insisted. “You and Enid, you make good wages up there, and the two of us here are living as cheap as we can. There’s no need to marry the girl off unless it’s of her choosing, eh?”

  “She’s not getting any younger, you old fool,” Agnes hissed. “And I can’t work forever. I’m nearly done up there, one way or the other. Got everything I’m going to from those Wakefields. The well runs dry, you know, Harry. It runs dry.”

  “Then come home to us.” Harry covered her hand with his own. “Let your mistress take care of herself now, or get someone else. You’ve done enough for her, after all, and it’s taken its toll, Agnes. We’ve got enough saved up to get us by until I find work.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” She snatched her hand away. “You can’t work, Harry, and even
if you could, you’d make nothing. When Enid is married, we’ll have her money, plus what I’ve saved, and then we’ll go back to England. I’ll buy a house with my sister and we’ll take in lodgers.”

  Harry shook his head. “Wills could never make a trip like that, Agnes. It would kill him.”

  “He’s not going to live much longer anyway,” she said, ignoring the stricken face of her husband. “By the time Enid is married, it will all be over. And then we’ll go.” She glanced out the window at the graying sky. “I have to get back to the house now, or that nosy cook will be at me with her questions.”

  “Agnes. We have to talk more about this. About Enid and Wills. I won’t leave them behind.”

  “I’m going back to England, Harry.” Agnes buttoned up her cloak. “With or without you. As soon as Enid is married.”

  “Agnes, please …” he implored.

  She withdrew four dollars from her bag and held the money out to him. “Do you need this?”

  He nodded miserably.

  “Of course you do.” She set it on the table. “And I will give it to you. Just as I have always given you everything since the day we met. Three children, Harry, and I buried the one I loved most. I came with you to a country I never wanted to see, traveled across it at great hardship, and watched my youngest become an imbecile. You didn’t want to put him away, Harry. You wanted to keep him with you.” She put on her hat. “I went to work so you could do that. I have taken care of everything and everyone, and now I want something in return.” She opened the door. “I want to go home, Harry. While I still can.”

  “You’re right, Agnes. You wanted a different life, but you got this one instead. I haven’t been the husband to you I should’ve been, and I know you’ve done the best you could.” Harry’s voice was tender with remorse. “You go whenever you’re ready, Agnes. The children and I can fend for ourselves, though we’ll miss you. You won’t go without saying goodbye, though, will you, dear?”